"My grandmother was a complicated woman—angry, loving, gossipy, and vibrant. She lived a country’s length away from me, and we were never close, even though I was named after her. The truth is, her mercurial moods scared me a little. One Christmas morning when I was 10 or so, I unwrapped a heavy package and discovered a beautiful hardcover book complete with illustrations: Little Women. On the inside was my grandmother’s inscription in handwriting as bold as she was: For Sarah, with love. I devoured the book that day, then read it again and again. When I was immersed in its pages, I felt more connected to my grandmother than I ever had before; it was as if she truly saw me as the shy, book-loving girl I was, instead of the confident, outspoken one she perhaps wanted me to be. My grandmother died long ago, but I still have the worn, beloved copy of the novel she gave me, with her faded handwriting gracing the opening page. I cherish it still."
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